I sit and
listen to him talk for hours. As he speaks, I focus on the
sound of his words and the way his
mouth makes those sounds. I know I'm not meeting his eyes, and he can tell I'm staring, but he humors me, and we pretend we are having a normal
conversation.
The percussion of lips and teeth, the piano strings of his tongue, the squeek of woodwinds escaping the corners of his mouth, and the hidden brass section in his throat... they take their turns sounding out, and somehow their music turns into thoughts and ideas and feelings.
The wild score that he's conducting in his mind, half composed and half improvised, takes me with it on gentle waves of challenge and reassurance. Occasionally I speak, but my akward responses always fail to do his sound justice, and eventually I learn to appreciate and listen more carefully.
It's all so right.